I Wish
by Clear Skies
Summary: It's Christmas, and Will and Bran each have only one thing on their minds. Each other.


Written ages ago, for Ashura's DiR Christmas fic contest; I only just realised I hadn't posted it on here. Sorry about the paragraph spacing, but FFN won't let me have anything than a single line break. Hope the POV shifts are reasonably clear.  
  
**Soundtrack**: Sophie B Hawkins, _Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover_  
  
_Four, five, six..._  
It's fun to lie here and ponder the mysteries of the universe. And muse on the myriad of the world's woes. And count the cracks in the ceiling.  
_Eight, nine, ten..._  
Ask most people, and they'll tell you they hate storms. Some'll say they like them - the thrill of the thunder, the beauty of the lightning. I like storms myself, but what I like best are the hours just before them, when everything is still but there's electricity in the air, and you can _feel_ that something's about to happen.  
Well, some people can. I tried to tell Bran there was a storm coming, but he wouldn't listen. Laughed at me and said I was joking, that the sky was clear as day, not a cloud in sight. Well, who's laughing now? Black thunderheads cover the heavens; they blew up out of nowhere, to threaten us with rain and lightning. And he's still out there on the mountain, walking without his coat, while I'm here safe and warm with the curtains drawn and the lamp making a warm cave out of the room.  
Bran... He's a mystery, that one. Riddle and solution, all wrapped up in one, with his white hair and pale skin and golden eyes. So used all his life to pushing people away, keeping himself safe where no-one could hurt him, and then along came the four of us, invading with guns blazing.  
  
Of course, he doesn't know _why_ we were all thrown together - none of them do - but that doesn't matter. Thrown together we were, and together we've stayed - whenever we can. When Simon isn't at boarding school, and the rest of us all get our holidays...and some times we've had. Summer was fun - Professor and Mrs Drew took us to the Lakes, and we swam and sailed and walked till we were exhausted.   
And before that everyone came and spent Christmas at the farm - four of them, as well as six of us nine. Craziest Christmas I've had in a while, that. Nearly drove Mum off her head; she'd've gone spare if it hadn't been for Bran, being so polite and helpful. Insisted on calling her 'Mrs Stanton', and she loved it, for all she begged him to call her Alice. Helped her with the chores and did the washing up and generally put us all to shame, 'til my dad set us to helping too.  
Odd, that - he actually looked happy while he was doing it, too. And none of us could work out why, until Barney hit on it.  
_"Well, he never had a proper family, did he?"_  
Sharp, that one; almost too sharp, sometimes, because that cut me to the bone. Suddenly seeing him standing there, up to the elbows in washing-up liquid, made me feel so, so sorry for him. I wanted to tell him he could stay - another day, another week, forever; wanted to give him what he'd never had. I wanted him to be happy.  
  
I had to apologise for my sister. Mary's so incorrigible - she really will flirt with anything in trousers. Never means any harm by it, but in his case she really didn't know what she was getting herself into...  
I needn't have worried, as it turned out. He was warm and attentive - which was so completely unlike him I nearly choked. I expected him to freeze her with a look and tell her in no uncertain terms to leave him alone. He's changed so much over the past year, become much more open and friendly, for all that he still has his moments when he pulls back into himself and all those old walls go up again.  
And somehow he didn't need to say it, didn't need to tell her _'I'm flattered, but...'_, didn't have to mention why. Because he did it just right - he treated her like a person instead of 'just a girl', and she loved it.  
Not to mention Bar. Dear god, I'd forgotten that. Came down pouting because she couldn't get her hair right for the Christmas party she was off to. We were all there making suggestions - put it up, keep it down, braid it, cut it off (James got smacked for that one) - and then this quiet Welsh voice says from the corner,  
"_Duw_, it wouldn't matter if you went with a plastic bag over it; every head in the room would _still_ turn the minute you walked in."  
We all roared agreement, she coloured prettily, and Bran had two more friends in our family - Barbara, and my dad, for making all his girls happy without him having to lift a finger. Quickest way to Dad's heart.  
  
He played the harp for us, after, and that was Paul gone - he dug out that antique flute Miss Greythorne gave him, and they filled the house with liquid music. Beautiful, it was; they played Dvorak and Bach and some Bizet, and then Bran launched into Jerusalem and that won him Robin. Twin Two's favourite song, played so beautifully, every note a drop of quicksilver, and in the perfect key for his baritone; we let him sing alone, though we knew every word.  
After that, it wasn't long before the last bastion of Stanton resistance fell. Bran made some offhand comment as he was putting away his harp about how much better public transport was here than in Wales, and how he was saving up for a new bike in lieu; an hour later, he and James were still talking about whether he should get drop or straight handlebars, how many gears he'd need, and so on and so forth. By the end of that fortnight, there wasn't a single heart in the Stanton household than Bran had failed to win except mine.  
And now I'm not so sure about mine, either...  
  
Foul weather, this is, but I've had worse, out here on these old hills. Never without a coat though, and _Iesu_, but I'm going to get it from Will when I get back. He's going to be so full of himself when I come back soaked to the skin. It'll be _I told you so_ from here till Christmas.  
Oh well. That's only a day, after all.  
Duw, but those English have a crazy idea of school holidays. Keeping them in till six days before? No wonder Will was glad to get out here and away. 'Course, he'd done all his shopping a month ago, good little boy that he is. Still, it's...nice to have him here.  
Mostly so I can work on a way of getting into those trousers of his, but still.  
Strange, it is, that he's so blind. I've been dropping hints his way since forever, 'til the Drews were sick to death, 'til even that sister of his caught on. His _mother_, even, and wasn't she nice about the fact that I wanted into her youngest's bed. Oh, they're all in on it, all of them saying _do this, do that, tell him this, talk to him about that, flirt with him like this, jump on him like that_; and isn't it worrying when his mother calls two days before his birthday to tell me what chocolates are his favourite...  
Mind you, none so blind as those who won't see. Some days I swear he knows; some days I can't see how he _can't_. Such a stubborn one, that English boy; maybe he's just being coy. If he is, he's going to have a hell of a lot to answer for.  
You know, there's a point beyond which you just don't get any wetter. I could walk on this mountain for another hour and be exactly as wet as I am now. Dead of hypothermia, but not any wetter. And I can tell you what my eulogy would be, too; I Told Him So, by W Stanton.  
I wish.  
  
I never liked Christmas, before I met him. Hated it, in fact. Da was never one for it, oh no. Kept it the way chapel told him to, and not much else; cards, of course, from everyone there and the few I brought home, and a gift or two each way, but that was all. No alcohol. No tree. No paperchains. No _laughter_.  
And then to go to Will's, that first time he asked me - so tentative, like I was going to bite. Oh no, Will Stanton, I leapt at the chance. To get away from that oh-so-quiet little cottage, to go somewhere with light and warmth and _love_...that was more than I thought I'd ever deserved. To have a proper Christmas - not just the turkey and the decorations and all of that, but the atmosphere too, the breathless expectation and the feeling of being a part - if only for a while - of that massive family.  
Too many brothers and sisters, he always says, too many people under one roof - but it was wonderful. Never a quiet moment, when at home it'd be hopeless small talk and long awkward silences. Always something to do, someone to talk to; he can't have any idea how it felt to be accepted so easily. _This is my friend Bran_, and that was it - because I was _his_, I was _theirs_. No gaping at the freak, no comments on the white skin or the white hair.  
Maybe if I turn up on the doorstep, dripping wet, soaked to the skin, maybe he'll feel sorry for me. The drowned Welsh rat, white fur plastered flat. Maybe if I accidentally trip over the front step and fall into his arms, maybe I can be all sorry and help him out of his wet shirt...  
Shame about the Drews not being able to make it. Not that I'll be complaining; gives us the house to ourselves, him and me, what with Da over at old lady Jones's helping them with Christmas after Mr Jones passed away. God bless Christian charity, say I; maybe he'll come back with some idea of what Christmas _should_ be.  
  
Will's present's wrapped and ready, up away on top of the wardrobe. The best set of watercolours in all of Wales - I hope. To the Accidental Artist, it says on the tag - Mrs Drew set us all to drawing one day when it was pouring down outside and we were going crazy indoors. Turned out our Will has quite a talent with his pencil. Produced this lovely sketch of a sailing ship, all slender masts and graceful sails. Beautiful, it was, and somehow it tugged at a memory inside...  
Odd, that. We asked him where he'd seen it, and he just stared off into space and said he'd drawn it from memory. And I'd swear he's never seen a sailing ship in his life.  
Oh, well. Best get back to the cottage, before he misses me.  
I wish. Oh, I _wish_...  
  
The finishing touches are all in place - the last flap taped down, the carefully-curled ribbon arranged as artistically as I can manage. Just the tag, now.  
...  
Pen-chewing is a habit I really ought to get out of.  
...  
Damn. _Why_ is it so difficult to think of anything to say? Too easy to think of things not to say, that's the problem. Like, _Dear Bran, I think I have a crush on you, but it makes it really difficult to tell you when you flirt with every boy in sight_. Or, _To Bran, if you stopped hitting on me for ten seconds and actually showed some interest in what I had to say, I'd like you a lot more, love Will._ Or even, _You're cute, I'm gay, let's go._  
Definitely not. Maybe I should just go with something traditional. Ordinary. Merry Christmas, hope you like it.  
Something ordinary, for a boy who's anything but. No. This needs to be special.  
Like him.  
I was the first one he told, and he was mine. He was scared of what his Da might say; I knew which of my family I wanted to tell and which I'd rather run through fire than tell. He was crying, angry, hating the world that made him like he was; I held him and let him cry, and part of my soothing was to let my secret go...  
It was almost, almost like a movie; you could see how it was supposed to happen. He was meant to lift his head, wide-eyed, and I was supposed to lean down and kiss him, and angels would sing and rose petals fall and we'd be together forever.  
He laughed, through his tears, once he got over the shock, and said we were even better friends now; we had to be, see, because we shared _another_ interest. Like a hobby, see. We could go out on the pull together, now. Eye up boys together. Right?  
And we laughed then, together, two friends sharing a secret, and not a thought for the might-have-beens.  
I wish...  
  
"Jesus Christ!"  
"Not quite." He squints up at me from under his sopping mop of white hair, muted laughter in his eyes. "Sorry to disappoint you."  
"I - "  
He flaps a hand at me, mock-scowling. "Don't you _dare_ say it, _sais bach_, or I'll rip your throat out."  
"Fine." I scowl back, only half-joking - the idiot's gone and got himself soaked to the skin, and all because he wouldn't listen to me. "Hurry up and come in, then, it's freezing with the door wide open."  
Bran makes as if to step forward, but something goes wrong halfway - his foot seems to catch on the step (_the step he passes every day_) and his eyes widen, arms flying out as he tumbles -  
I catch him almost instinctively, staggering as his weight impacts against my chest. Not as heavy as I expected - he's willow-slender, and as hollow-boned as any bird.  
And _wet._ He doesn't thud so much as _squelch_ into me, wet hair flicking into my eyes, dampness instantly starting to seep through my shirt. I yelp with annoyance, and he looks up at me - and damned if my heart doesn't melt at the confused, apologetic look in those big tawny eyes...  
"Oops." He pushes away slightly, taking his weight on his own two feet again, but staying so close that I can feel his breath. "Sorry about that, Will. Got a little clumsy there."  
"Idiot." I can't manage the force behind the word; it comes out soft, almost affectionate. I brush ineffectually at my shirt, which now sports a Bran-shaped wet patch.  
He catches my eye, and then the apology in his expression fades, replaced by a hungry look I know all too well as he reaches for the top button of my shirt.  
"Better get that off, Will."  
I freeze in place as he starts unbuttoning, fingers icy against my skin. "What...what're you doing?"  
He leans forward again, rainwater still dripping from his hair, his clothes, his chin, and I have to fight the urge to push him away; his chuckle is low and throaty. "Unwrapping an early Christmas present."  
_That's far enough._ I step backwards, doing my shirt back up. "It's not Christmas yet. And you need to get those clothes off before you get hypothermia."  
The look he gives me is shot through with desire; I turn away, heading for the kitchen before he can ask me for a hand. "I'll make you a cup of tea, see if we can't stop you from getting a cold. _Get changed_."  
  
Why so stubborn, Stanton? I couldn't've been more obvious if I'd _tried_. Damn, _why_ won't he respond? What am I doing wrong?   
I can't work it out, though I try, as I shrug off my drenched shirt and snag a pair of shorts out of the wardrobe. What's the problem? Doesn't he like me? I thought I was his best friend.  
I slide into bed, and am still trying to puzzle it through when the object of my confusion appears in the doorway, cradling a steaming mug of tea.  
  
Good, he's got himself into bed. I avert my eyes from his bare chest, away from the taut white skin gleaming in the soft light of his bedside lamp, catching his yellow-gold tiger's eyes instead, trying to keep my mind off how..._pretty_ he looks. That's the only word for it. He's too delicate, too elfin to be called handsome.   
Feeling my eyes on him, he stretches luxuriously, like a cat, looking up at me seductively from under his white lashes.  
"Just couldn't stay away, could you?"  
  
His hand drops from the doorframe, spell broken; his expression slackens, then hardens as he turns away.  
I curse myself, reaching out instinctively to stop him, pull him back. "_Dammo_ - Will!"  
He stops, caught on the threshold, slowly pivoting as though turned against his will. His face is torn, so anguished that it startles all the flirt out of me.  
"What...what's wrong? Don't," I swallow, dreading the answer, "don't you like me any more?"  
He looks at me with those big grey eyes - sorrowful, like. "Oh, Bran...I liked you when you were _you_, idiot. Before you started all this stupid flirting. I liked the old Bran, the quiet one, who always knew the right thing to say. The Bran who I could talk to, and joke with, and share secrets with. I wish..." He bites his tongue, as though he was about to say something and caught himself just in time. "Just be _you_ for once, can't you?"  
  
A wave of realisation spreads across Bran's face, followed by contrition, and then a softening in his eyes that in turn softens my heart. Rising without a word, he pulls me against him, all my resistance suddenly gone, just enough conscious thought left to put the tea carefully down on the table next to the bed. _This_ is the Bran I know - composed and confident, but with that hint of diffidence underneath that is so, so endearing. Like he's always seeking approval for what he does, holding back until he's sure I don't mind.  
Bran's slender body moulds to mine like cool water flowing over stone - he wraps his leg around mine, the arched sole of his foot mirroring the swell of my calf; his arms slide around me, fitting easily under my own; the centre of his heat presses against my hip, the warmth of his body already creeping through my trousers.   
"Just be myself?" He leans in close, eyes shining in the lamplight, fingers coming up to trace delicate patterns on my throat. "You mean...like this?"  
I shiver comfortably. "Like that."  
Gentle touches on my skin, down the curve of my neck and flowing over my shoulders. "Like this?"  
The tension in my back unfurls; I relax under his caresses, leaning against him, breathing in his scent. "Mmm...like that."  
His fingers slide lower, gliding over my stomach, slipping down and taking my pants with them...  
"Like...this?"  
"Yes..."  
_I wished...and it came true..._  
  
I shoot a glance at my alarm clock over the deliciously bare curve of his shoulder - five minutes past midnight. Christmas Day.  
"Aren't you going to open your present, then?"  
He curls closer to me, resting his cool forehead against my neck. "Thought I already did..."  
I flick the tip of his nose affectionately, chuckling. "Your _actual_ present, boyo. It's Christmas Day."  
He makes a half-hearted attempt to bite my finger, settling instead for nibbling my neck. "'S only just _morning_, idiot. We ought," he gets interrupted by a huge yawn, "ought t' get some sleep."  
"Feh." I tickle him, and he chuckles tiredly. "You weren't saying that five minutes ago, _bachgen_."  
He snuggles back up to me, wrapping warm arms around me, immobilising me quite effectively. "_Sleep_, you Welsh lecher."  
"Lecher, is it?" I exclaim in mock outrage. "Well, a happy Christmas to you too, _cariad_!"  
"_Nos **da**_," he says with finality, burying his face in my neck, and then, quietly, from the depths of my chest,  
"_...cariad_."  
"_Nos da_," I murmur in his ear, cradling him tenderly, listening to his gentle breathing as he drifts into sleep.  
_I wished...oh, how I wished..._


End file.
